A Nick in Time
by Pats
Summary: The inner thoughts of Nick as he thinks about his "situation" in the bathroom at Chet's apartment.


I know this is an odd movie to write a fan fic for, but as I was watching the movie, it was my first instinct. So, here is just a quick extended scene of Nick's thoughts and reactions in the bathroom while Chet is in the hallway trying to figure out how to disarm the bomb. Obviously, this isn't going to make much sense if you haven't seen the movie.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own this movie, obviously. So, don't sue my behind off.

Enjoy.

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><p>Nick's POV while in Bathroom<p>

Panic... Pure unadulterated panic spikes through me not for the first time today as I wedge my hand behind the top part of the vest. Seriously, a god-damn bomb! Who would have thought? If when I woke up this morning, I was asked to guess what was going to happen today, this wouldn't have made the top 100... Hell, it wouldn't have made the top 10,000! It would have definitely been behind getting lost in space and coming back to find apes have taken over the world and receiving my Hogwarts letter. _MAYBE_ before zombies, vampires, and werewolves taking over downtown LA.

I look up at the ceiling of the bathroom in desperation, praying to anyone who is listening to get me out of this situation. I'm not a church-goer by any means, mostly because Sunday mass starts way too early in morning. It's a terrible thing to say, but not untrue. However, if there was a time to find God, now is it. I wait for my sign from above, but all I see are the cracks in the cheap plaster above my head. The cracks start from one relatively small three-inch line right above the sink and spread out like a wave across the rest of the ceiling. How one tiny gap could cause the rest of the ceiling to look like it was smashed with a baseball bat is amazing! And seriously, the symbolism isn't lost on me. I know an analogy for my problem when I see one; how one act can cause everything else to spiral out of control, yea, I get it. I'm a slacker, not an idiot.

"Idiot..." I murmur to myself as I bang my head on the wall behind the toilet I'm currently residing on, "Lazy, good-for-nothing idiot." Which, if I'm being honest, is why I'm in this situation. I am good-for-nothing. That's why those two rednecks picked me. Nobody would miss a pizza boy if they blow up. People would miss someone important like a... a... I don't know, graphic engineer or a microbiologist. But a pizza boy? Yea, not so much.

I hear Chet outside the bathroom in the hallway. He's talking about something, but it makes no difference. I know he's not going to find anything to help me online. And even if he does, it'll probably backfire and blow us both up. I'm a big proponent of not believing _anything_ you read on the internet. As soon as we got to his apartment, I went into the bathroom to have my own private panic attack. He had called through the bathroom door asking if I was okay and if I needed a cup of tea. Really, man? A cup of f*cking tea? I keep that to myself and mumble a non-answer, something akin to "Go away." And I truly mean it, he _should_ go far away. I am, after all, strapped to a live bomb. Especially after everything I said to him yesterday about his sister and his Willie Mays ball. Why would he stick around with such a douche? Why would he even think about helping me? It's a legitimate question, but how does that saying go? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth...

I breathe out heavily through my nose, trying to pretend I have my nerves back in order. I don't. It feels like the bomb vest is strapped on too tight and I can't breathe properly. I can feel the sweat building up on my cottony Vito's T-shirt. I wonder idly if the moisture could cause the bomb to go off. Just add it to the list of concerns. It pales in comparison to the red countdown timer hanging near my collarbone. I try to take another deep breath. My heart is hammering out a distinct horror-like theme song. I snort at that thought. Great, I've become a poet in the last few hours of my shitty existence.

I drop my head between my knees like my mother used to make me to do when I was a kid. Anytime I would get worked up beyond my ability to control myself, my mother would sit me down, grip the back of my neck in her motherly way and push my head down between my own knees. The first few times, I remember griping about boys not bending this way and how "now, I couldn't breathe at all", but I always distinctly remember feeling better afterwards. Maybe it was the stroking of my mom's hand up and down my back or the gentle whisper of her voice telling me to just relax. Whatever magic that was maybe could help me now. I squeezed my eyes shut and give a quiet whimper. I know Chet didn't hear me, but the constant chattering of his voice stops.

"Nick, you okay in there?" I hear him call out for the hundredth time. I rock myself, manically. I'm going to lose it. I feel a hysterical sob try to push its way out of me. I swallow and squelch it down.

"Hmmm-hm," I try to answer him as best I can. I know if I open my mouth all sorts of horrors are going to escape. Possibly all at once, in a very Pandorical way.

He continues his rant now, seemingly not noticing my breakdown. He might just be acting like a reliable friend who pretends not to see everything falling down around you to save you some humility. My thoughts spiral. I think about all the minutes I've wasted as I watch the red timer ticking away out of the corner of my eye. I think about all the nights I spent watching crappy action flicks and playing video games. I think about the mornings I slept through only to grudgingly wake up at two in the afternoon to go to my useless job. I think about pining over Chet's twin sister, Kate, alone at home when I could have easily just asked her on a date. If I get a chance in the next... I glance at the timer and try to school my expressively twitching face... 7 hours, I'm going to tell Kate how I feel. 'Cause seriously, this may be my only chance. God, how dramatic is that.

I hear Chet say something about cutting off my arms. I've never seen 127 Hours, but I'm pretty sure the theme of the movie is how much it hurts to cut off your arm! Okay, maybe that's not the theme, but I only have seven hours left and I'm not wasting an hour and a half of it to find out about the true meaning to the movie. A small rational part of me thinks I'm hysterical now. Someone should slap me. I sit back up and stand up. Breathe, breathe, breathe... Another deep huff pushes its way out of me. I sit again. Apparently, I'm entering a restless stage in my roller coaster of an existence. I lean forward to yank open the door and sit back on the toilet. Tears welling up in my eyes, I push my hand under the top of the vest again in hopes of creating space to breathe. I panic.


End file.
